Never Knowing

able to build a real future because I didn’t know my real past. It was like building a house on no foundation. It might stay up for a while but eventually it would start sinking.

When I got home Moose snorted and jumped all over me like I’d been gone a million years. After I let him out for a pee — poor guy only made it a foot out the door — I thought about calling the cops to report the prank call but decided to wait and talk things over with Evan. When I scrolled through the call display to see if he’d phoned while I was out, I noticed two private numbers. I checked my voice mail and they were from newspapers.

For the next hour I paced around the house with the cordless gripped in my hand, praying Evan would call soon. The phone rang in my hand once, making me jump, but it was just another reporter. After a while I made myself call Dad and tell him what I found online and about the calls.

He said, “Don’t answer the phone if you don’t know the number. If someone asks about the Campsite Killer, deny everything. You were adopted but your birth mother wasn’t Karen Christianson.”

“You think I should lie?”

“Damn right. I’ll tell Melanie and Lauren the same. And if any punk calls again, just hang up.”

“Should I go to the police?”

“They can’t do anything. I’ll deal with this. Send me the links.”

“Most of them are just forums.”

“Send them.”

I did as he said, then tortured myself by reading the comments again. There were ten new ones, each sicker than the last. I checked the other Web sites and the comments were just as bad. It shocked me that people could be so mean about someone they didn’t know — and it terrified me that they knew my name. I wanted to monitor the sites, wanted to defend myself and Julia, but it was time to go meet with Ally’s teacher.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Turns out the other little girl had been harassing Ally for a while — messing up her desk, taking paints while Ally was still using them — and Ally finally lost it. Of course, I said I’d explain to her that pushing wasn’t the way to deal with disagreements and she should tell an adult if she’s having problems, but I’d have said anything to get out of there. What Ally did was wrong, and I did talk to her about it, but frankly it didn’t seem like such a big deal compared to the fact that I’d just ruined Julia’s life, not to mention my own. Then I dragged my whole family into it. It was the last one that hurt the most.

The phone finally rang at eight. As soon as I saw Evan’s cell number I answered in a rush, “We have to talk.”

“What’s going on?”

“That Web site — it spread somehow, maybe they didn’t do a Google sweep. But now it’s on other blogs. It’s mostly about Julia, but there are all these disgusting comments — some of them mention my name. Then this teenager called and said he’s my father. Reporters are calling, but I’m not answering, and Dad said—” “Sara, slow down — I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.” I took a deep breath and began again. At the end Evan was silent for a minute, then said, “Have you called the cops?”

“Dad said they can’t do anything.”

“You should still tell them what’s going on.”

“I don’t know … he said he’ll deal with it.” The last thing I wanted was Dad pissed at me for going against him.

“So let him, but get something on record.”

“He’s right, though. They can’t do anything about someone playing a joke.”

“You asked for my advice. Call the police in the morning — and don’t comment on any of these blogs.”

“Okay, okay.”

After I hung up the phone, I climbed into bed and watched late-night TV until I fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning the phone rang. Without looking at the call display I reached over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Good morning. I understand you restore furniture?”

I sat up. “I do. What can I help you with?”

“I have a few pieces, a table, some chairs. I don’t think they’re worth much, but they were my mother’s and I’d like to give them to my daughter.”

“Value isn’t always what you can sell something for — it’s what it means to you.”

“This table means a lot. I spent most of my time there — I like food.” He laughed and I laughed back.

“Kitchen tables tell the story of a family. Sometimes people just want me to clean them up a little but preserve marks their children made, things like that.”

“How much do you usually charge?”

“Why don’t I have a look and give you an estimate.” I climbed out of bed and threw on a robe as I headed to my office for a pen. “I can come to your house, or a lot of my clients just e-mail me photos.”

“You go to strangers’ homes?”

I paused in my hallway.

He said, “Do you go alone?”

Okay, there was no way I was taking this job. My voice flattened, turning cold. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m your father.”

That explained it, just another jerk playing a prank.

“Who is this?”

“I told you — your father.”

“I have a father and I don’t appreciate—”

“He’s not your father.” The voice turned bitter. “I wouldn’t have given my kid away.” He paused and I heard traffic in the background. I almost hung up, but I was too mad.

“I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing—”

“It’s not a joke. I saw Karen’s photo and recognized her. She was my third one.”

“Everyone knows Karen was his third victim.”

“But I still have her earrings.”

My stomach climbed into my throat. What kind of person pretends to be a murderer?

“Do you think this is funny? Calling someone and trying to scare them? Is this how you get your kicks?”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To get to know you.”

I hung up. The phone rang back right away. The call display showed a BC area code, but I didn’t recognize the prefix. Finally the ringing stopped, only to start up again. My hands shook as I unplugged the phone.

I raced down the hallway, woke Ally up, told her to get ready for school, and jumped into the shower. Out in minutes, I made her some peanut butter and toast while she brushed her teeth, slapped her lunch together while she ate, then tore out of the house.

When I walked into the police station two older men in plainclothes were manning the front desk. As I headed toward them a policewoman came through the door behind the counter and picked up a file off a desk. I guessed her to be First Nations, with high cheekbones, coffee-colored skin, big brown eyes, and thick straight dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.

At the counter I said, “I want to talk to someone about some calls I’m getting.”

One of the men said, “What kind of calls?”